


The Secret Love Life of the Deputy Commissioner

by Arya_Durin_51



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: 1920s, But I still ship them so I will just fade to black when it comes to it, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fear of being sent to the gulag, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I don't know how to write a threesome, M/M, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, OT3, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, This ship needs more works, You get the memo, i love them, my children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2020-12-14 10:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21014654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Durin_51/pseuds/Arya_Durin_51
Summary: The (mis)adventures of Gleb's love life dating back to 1924. Being bisexual in 1920's Leningrad is no easy feat, but Gleb has not been shot yet; that has to amount to something, right?





	1. The Arrest that started Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grifterandthief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grifterandthief/gifts).

> Dedicated to grifterandthief, who is pretty much the reason I finally wrote this. We exchanged ideas, and together developed all my heaadcanons.

* * *

If you asked Deputy Commissioner General Gleb Sergejević Vaganov how he found himself lying in a hotel room in Paris, between two people, after having made love with both, he would blame it on an arrest and a backfiring truck. He would also tell you – in his defence – that it was never meant to go this far. But let us start from the beginning of the story of how the most loyal soldier committed treason, shall we?

* * *

_Leningrad, November 1924_

Commander General Vaganov, one step before receiving the position of Deputy Commissioner of the Leningrad Police Department, stood with his back to the door, looking out of his window at the back alley executions were held. The day his view would be of the Nevsky Prospekt could not come soon enough. Another shot echoed as a soldier brought in a thief and black marketer in his office. He could tell both of them flinched at the sound, as he looked at the body being dragged away without reacting. Better men had died for less at the front.

By the time he turned around, the soldier had left, leaving only him and the other man in his office. What he had definitely not expected was for this fine specimen of manhood to be handcuffed in the chair. He was stubbornly not looking at Gleb, so the latter took the liberty of checking him out freely, before picking up the file on his desk.

“Dmitry Andrejević Sudayev, would you like me to read your very long list of offences?” The man before him didn’t look up, and kept his lips tightly shut. The thought of those lips marking his neck or sucking him off made Gleb’s ears heat up, and he chased away the thought before continuing, lest it affect another part of his anatomy. “Theft, selling at the black market, assisting would-be defectors by providing them forged papers for exiting the country, and counter-revolutionary behaviour, just to top it all off. Anything to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, raising his chin in defiance. Their eyes met, and Gleb had never seen so much fire and in a single pair of eyes.

“Oh, really?” He countered to rid himself of the little voice in the back of his head to just kiss those pretty lips that were now smirking.

“And even if I did, you don’t have any tangible proof, just hearsay.” And thus, Gleb was busted by the Prince of Conmen.

“Our sources-“

“You mean the people you have interrogated? They would blame anyone to save their skins. And just because I didn’t serve does not make me a traitor. I’m just getting by.”

So he let him go. That time, and the following three. It was as if he was doing it on purpose to drive Gleb up the wall in frustration, sometimes of the sexual kind. He was, and he was successful. It wasn’t until Dmitry’s fifth arrest, that he fell over the edge.

After so many times in his office, Dmitry remained uncuffed in his chair, lounging on it, his trademark smirk a permanent fixture on his face by now. As always, Gleb threatens him a little, and Dmitry brushes him off, being his unbothered self, with his cheeky smirk, and his shiny brown hair, and his gorgeous eyes that shine like amber in the late afternoon sunlight, and Gleb is kissing him as if he’s drowning, and Dmitry’s lips are air.

They broke apart, panting hard. Gleb couldn’t help but run his hands through the other’s brown locks, not surprised to find them as silky as he imagined them in lonely nights in his bed. Dmitry’s hand on his collar kept him close, and their foreheads touched.

“Mitya...” he breathed out.

“Gleb’ka...”

Dmitry’s hoarse whisper wakes him up from his stupor, and his eyes snap open as realisation of what he had done hits him like a ton of bricks. He tears Dmitry’s hand off of him, and jumps away. He sits on his chair behind his desk, a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. His last line of defence, in most cases, but it betrayed him when it needed it the most. The one time Gleb desperately whished he would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, he fails. _Dmitry is not your enemy, _a voice in his head whispers, and he dares not believe it.

Dmitry was on his feet the exact moment Gleb sat on his chair. He was both pleasantly - that had to be the feeling in the pit of his belly - surprised and _terrified _when Gleb kissed him with such force, underlining passion; God knew what he would ask for next. But he didn’t. He seemed affectionate when his hands run through his hair, and his eyes were honest. The young General was known for his ruthlessness and skill in combat – probably the main reason he rose through the ranks so quickly - not for his displays of affection, especially towards men. Or women, for that matter; unlike his colleagues, he was known for not taking lovers off of the street, making him a prize to be won by the girls in Theatre Street.

He studied him with no fear of consequences, and came to a striking realisation: Gleb looked like a hunted wounded animal. It looked as if Dmitry was the one with the power, the one with a _gun _in his belt. In truth, he was, for he could walk right out of the office, go to Commissioner Gorlinksy, and tell him exactly what had transpired, what Gleb had _done_, condemning the other man to _rehabilitation _in Siberia. _Isn’t that how Andrey Sudayev died? Gulag is the word you’re looking for, _a voice taunted in his head.

“Dima,” he said as he walked around the desk to stand directly in front of Gleb.

“What?” He looked up at Dmitry.

“Don’t call me Mitya, call me Dima.” He whispered with a mischievous _smile_, and bent down to kiss Gleb on the corner of his lips. “Gleb’ka,” he muttered, and kissed him again, properly on the lips.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with a spotify playlist! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xdXsxShDhfNqsN1B7Atz1?si=AuoMPL1fRIagL8rq_grcqg


	2. Emerald Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milića is Gleb's secretary, and the voice of reason. Gleb rarely listens.

* * *

“Did you break the bed? Because it’s brand new.”

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Milića Milosević was the tallest woman in Leningrad. Her father was an Admiral of the Imperial Navy and later a White Army General. She had served in the Women’s Battalion of Death, and she used to play with the Tsar’s children when they were little.

She was also the feared secretary of the feared Commander General Gleb Vaganov of the Leningrad Police Department.

* * *

Milića had always been proud of her political views, and they never caused an actual rift between her and her most beloved father. Ilya Velicansky had been a devoted father, and raised his daughter as best as he could after he was widowed; different political views were hardly ground for a rift to appear between them. Her faith in the New Order did not waver even when her superiors asked her to renounce him, and take her mother’s Serbian surname instead. As far as anyone was concerned, she was glad to be rid of him and the tainted reputation of the monstrous White.

Out of the twenty bullets, five had landed on his handsome face. She could no longer look at the emerald eyes they shared, and the grave she buried him remained unmarked. She had smiled.

Yet through everything, even when the New Order kept failing her, she remained loyal to General Vaganov. They had met as children, and she had sworn to herelf that she would keep him safe. Her superior during the War to End All Wars, and later her superior in the Cheka, he was her dearest friend, and she the person he trusted the most in his life. You can imagine her shock and disappointment when she found him shagging a criminal in his office behind her back.

She had always known of Gleb’s preference towards both genders, as he knew of her own preference towards women; she often joked that they should be living it up in Berlin with others like themselves, without fear of being sent to the gulag. He just kept up his tirade about the conduct and behaviour of _good and loyal Russians_, and she berated him about his delusions.

But a blatant display of homosexuality? In his office? On his desk? _That_ she had not expected, at least not from him. He was putting his career, hell, his whole bloody _life_ in jeopardy, and for what? A good fuck? The adrenaline that must have been coursing through his veins due to the risk he was taking? All that for a man who, in her personal and not so humble opinion, did not deserve Gleb. Milića knew it to be love, even when he would not admit it.

She had walked in on them, with Sudayev bent over the desk – they drank their tea on that desk – and Gleb behind him, lost in the throes of passion, eyes closed. She yelped and closed the door faster than she thought possible, but at the same time, it had taken her too long. The image of the two of them was now at the forefront of her mind, making her cheeks turn red. Sudayev left not ten minutes later, and not for a second did he lift his eyes towards her.

“Milosević!” Gleb called her from his office, sounding agitated.

It was more than awkward. The tension inside the room could be cut with the knife, and the distinct smell of sweat and sex did not exactly help their situation. She crossed her arms in front of her, tapping her fingers against her arms, and he wouldn’t lift his gaze from where he shuffled his boots like he used to as a small boy.

She knew he would say something stupid when the breath he sucked in was audible.

“I know this looks bad, but-”

“_Looks bad_? Are you fucking serious, Gleb Sergejević?”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Well, if you wanted to keep this a secret,” she gritted out more quietly, “you should have thought beforehand that this is not the safest, nor the most private place to have sex, especially with another man.”

“I know that-”

“No, you don’t! This is not Berlin, Gleb’ka,” she sighed. He knew he felt betrayed when the New Order failed him for the first time; equality for all, except for _them_. Gleb had hoped to kiss other boys freely, only to learn the price was fifteen years in Siberia.

“This is not Moscow either,” he shot back.

“It doesn’t matter! What if it was someone else opening that door?”

“_You_ are the only one that doesn’t knock.”

“Neither does Gorlinsky,” she pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“Gorlinsky hasn’t been here since his days as Deputy Commissioner,” he smirked, because he was right.

“That doesn’t mean you should take such risks. This is still your workplace.”

“And what was I supposed to do? I live in a commute, remember? And I can’t exactly take my male lover to a hotel.”

“You could have told me,” she said with a frown.

“And have you lecture me about it?”

“I _am_ lecturing you about it.”

“But you would also forbid it, and probably threaten Dmitry too.”

“Who said I won’t?”

“What I mean,” he said and walked closer to her, “is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission, especially when it comes to you, sestra.” He gave her that smile of his, tugging at her heartstrings like he always did.

He took another couple of steps and hugged her tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder, and she mirrored him. She had made a promise to protect him, not only to herself, but also to his mother before she breather her last, and damn her if he would not keep it.

“I’ll keep your secret, but you have to be quiet and discreet.”

“We always have been.” She pulled slightly away, looking at him with a puzzled look on her face. “This isn’t the first time,” he said with a smirk. That was a big mistake when it comes to arguments with your big sister, and he really should have known better after so many years. What can one do, Gleb had mastered the skill of digging his own grave. She swat at him multiple times. “Alright, alright, I promise!”

She ceased her hitting momentarily, only to continue it after not another minute. “Is that cum on your beard? For fuck’s sake Gleb!”

* * *


	3. Safe Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gleb and Dima get a house, but still believe their relationship is purely physical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the rating has officially gone up to Mature!

* * *

Gleb’s office was safe; relatively. Milića stood guard, but that made it even more awkward afterwards, and he hated it. The Yusupov Palace was also safe; also relatively. They just lived with the delusion that Vlad didn’t know about them, the poor boys. Their relationship was purely physical, on Dmitry’s insistence, and consisted mostly of rushed and rough kisses in back alleys, blowjobs in the seats of the Yusopov theatre, and Gleb bending Dmitry over his desk. And if some of their touches betrayed the need for tenderness, the desire to kiss the other senseless, and tender nights spent in the arms of each other, then it was nobody’s business. Dmitry knew better than anyone that letting your walls down could be lethal, and Gleb was an artist when it came to hiding one’s feelings.

* * *

Gleb believed ardently in the New Order, and considered it his duty to be a model citizen. He lived in a commute, waited in the breadlines every morning with everyone else, and praised the Motherland to anybody who would listen. A true idealist, a perfect soldier. It wasn’t until he had to hide his love life that he decided to abuse his privilege, and get his own apartment. Of course, everyone at the office and their mothers assumed, falsely, of course, that he had set his eyes on some girl and would make her his wife soon. Dmitry laughed when he told him.

It was still better to make assumptions about his amorous activities than putting suspicion on his – now former – roommates. He honestly had not minded living in a commute, even if it meant helping Innokenty with the groceries every day because he couldn’t balance them with the crutches, making sure Svetlana took her pills, or taking little Ekaterina to school and looking after her while her mother worked odd jobs. He couldn’t exactly have sex with anyone, least of all a man, with five other people in the room, a child amongst them. All of them _were_ possible traitors, aside from Innokenty – who had been discharged during the Civil War for another reason besides losing his leg – and Katya, who simply asked for lemon cakes every Sunday for her silence. He couldn’t fathom _how_ she had found out; but then again, she was more perceptive than half his comrades in the Cheka, and she was just seven years old.

Not to mention, he still didn’t understand Gorlinsky’s paranoia; not everyone was against the government, and people didn’t accept drastic change immediately. The Commissioner had dozens of people arrested every day, for trivial things such as complaining at the bread lines. It was utterly ridiculous, and he let these people go. _He died of shame_, she had said as they buried his father. _He died for his cause_, he had answered, and all his mother did was hold him tight as they mourned Sergey. How could the New Order be bad, if his father had died for it?

* * *

The apartment was spacious, almost as big as the house he had grown up in. The master bedroom had an en-suite bathroom, and the other bathroom had an actual bathtub. It was obviously meant to house a family, the one everyone believed Gleb would start soon. All in all, Gleb had loved it, it was Dmitry who... kind of didn’t, at least at first.

“You got us a house? I think we made it clear this is not an actual relationship, Vaganov.”

“Yes, I know that-”

“I did not agree to this. You took this too far; you can always get yourself a wife.”

“Dima, if you could please listen-”

“I mean, what were you even thinking?” Gleb opened his mouth to answer, but Dmitry held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t answer that; you obviously were _not_-”

“It’s to protect us!” Gleb snapped, and Dmitry shut his mouth. “Do you have any ideas what will happen to us if my superiors find out about this? Fifteen years to the gulag, Dima! We don’t deserve to die like dogs somewhere in Siberia for having non-reproductive sex!” He moved towards his lover and wrapped his arms around his waist. He breathed a little easier when Dmitry hugged him back. “I don’t want this to be the end of our stories, Dima,” he whispered, as if relaying a secret. “Too long we’ve stayed in the shadows, looking over our shoulders, fearing for our lives; we didn’t have a single moment of peace. I want us to be safe and free.

”There’s enough room for the both of us; you don’t have to sleep in my bed. You can bring a lover, if you wish. You’ll be warm, and fed, and sleeping in a bed instead of your bag of lentils. And a bath-”

“Gleb’ka...” He pulled away.

“Don’t say anything; I understand now that I overstepped. I won’t hold it against you, if you decide to end this.” He gestured between them, eyes downcast.

“You really are dense, Vaganov,” he said and kissed him. It tasted sweeter than sugar. “What were you saying?”

“What?”

“You were saying something about a bath?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a bathtub!”

“As in an actual bathtub? Not a shower stall?” Dmitry asked, disbelieving.

Gleb nodded vigorously. “It sure isn’t porcelain, but it can actually fit me, with extra room!”

“I’m going to have a bath... in an actual bathtub,” Dmitry said with wonder. “And there is going to be hot water?”

“Scalding hot, if I do say so myself.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I...”

“We’re roommates, idiot, it’s yours as much as it is mine.” Dmitry laughed like a little boy, and proceeded to spend two hours in the tub, until the water turned cold and brown.

* * *

The first night in their bed was a tender as they longed for, for a long time. No one knocking on the door, no Vlad bursting in the Theatre; it was just the two of them, and their secret, not exactly realised love.

“I like the view from up here,” Dmitry said cheekily, grazing his fingers over the hickeys and love bites he had marked the neck of his lover with.

“I like the view from down here too,” Gleb answered, and flipped them over. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What, you’ll go down on me?” He raised an eyebrow. “That was a surprise only the first two times,” he teased.

“No, something I’m sure you’ll like more,” he said breathlessly. He took Dmitry’s hand, and guided it down his back, and into his boxers.

“You...” Dmitry gasped when his fingers met slickness and a wide open entrance. He diped his finger, and Gleb moaned loudly.

“It comes,” he panted, “with the house.” _I feel safe in your arms_, is what he didn’t, and needn’t say.

“Then I cannot possibly leave you waiting,” said Dmitry with his trademark smirk, and flipped them over again. His lover deserved some special treatment.

* * *

“If I can’t walk to work in the morning, I swe-” Dmitry silenced Gleb’s mock threats with a kiss.

“If you still have the limp, say you tripped in the bathroom.”

“What about the marks?” That was a legitimate concern, given that the Commander General didn’t take lovers, and his neck was covered by many shades of the colours red and purple from all the bites, hickeys and gripping. Dmitry just nuzzled said marks.

“You can worry about it tomorrow.”

“It _is_ tomorrow. I have to be up in seven hours.”

“Alright, then can we worry about it ten minutes before you go to work?” Dmitry grumbled, and Gleb turned away from him, his arms still around him. “You’re a little spoon?”

“I refuse to answer that question on grounds that I don’t want to.”

“Asshole.”

“Dickhead.”

“Goverment pawn.”

“Criminal.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gleb being a glorious switch leaning on power bottom, because I'm not a coward. Comment if you can spot the kink near the end.  
I'd like to note that Gleb is still very much an idealist, and thinks it's Gorlinsky seeing things when there's nothing there; he has absolutley no idea he's working for one of the most corrupt organisations in modern history. Milica knows it, but at this point, it's either being part of the Cheka (much later known as KGB, for those of you who don't know) or being dead. Gleb's father, being considered a hero and all that, protects him even from beyong the grave.


	4. You live like Newlyweds and fight like and Old Married Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of the relationship across the years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is much shorter than originally planned, but if I hadn't cut this and the next chapter in half, you might have gotten the chapter around Easter. Enjoy the boys being in loe but not admitting it.

* * *

_May, 1925_

“Damn it, Dima!”

“What? I haven’t even left the bed yet!”

“I have a limp! _Again!”_

“Say you slipped in the bathroom!”

“How many times could I have possibly slipped in the bathroom?”

"Fell down the stairs?"

"I have already used _that_ excuse," he deadpanned

“Milića said you were clumsy.”

“When I was 13, not 26,” he exclaimed exasparated.

Sure enough, Gleb walked in the bedroom from the en-suite bathroom, a limp in his step, only in his pants, undershirt and suspenders, leaving the occupant of his bed to admire his physique shamelessly. He gave Dmitry a glare that was meant to scare him; it would have, if Dmitry wasn’t the one making him scream every night. The only result was Dmitry giving him a fond smile, and his knees were no longer stable, or solid, for that matter. He was _not_ falling in love.

“You know this look only makes me hornier, right?” The smile turned into the familiar smirk that had pushed Gleb over the edge the first time.

“Well, stay hard, because you’ll pay for this when I get back.”

“What are you going to do,” Dmitry taunted, “spank me?”

“Yes.”

Gleb went to work almost an hour late, a smug look on his face, his limp all but forgotten. Milića really did not want to know.

* * *

_January 17th, 1926_

Honestly, Dmitry did not remember it was his birthday. It wasn’t that he had forgotten the date, just that it had been more than fifteen years since the last time he had any kind of celebration for his birthday. Before his father was taken away by the Tsar’s soldiers, before he became just another nameless, homeless orphan in the streets of his Petersburg.

Now, with more than a year spent warming the bed of the newly appointed Deputy Commissioner – their celebratory fuck had lasted more than a few glorious hours – he could say he was... _content_? He honestly had no idea of what that felt like, so he supposed the sense of peace that overwhelmed him when he smelled coffee being made in the morning, or something being cooked in the evening, was what it was supposed to feel like. At this point, he was scared to ask, lest there was another answer hiding, one that he could not face, not yet. If anything, the hole that had formed in his chest when he watched his father being dragged away all those years ago, was being slowly but surely filled by the man lying next to him in bed, and his honest smiles, the ones that stood as proof his soul had once been as pure as fresh snow at the peaks of the mountains he had grown up on, the ones that only _he_ got to see.

The previous year, early on in their arrangement, Gleb had seemed hurt that Dmitry had not told him about his birthday; honestly, he had not seen a point then, nor did he see one now that he was turning 27. That was, until a raspy voice whispered _“happy birthday”_ in his ear, and lips started travelling down his neck to his chest, and further down below the covers, leaving open-mouthed kisses on their way.

“Good morning to y-” a moan tore through his chest as Gleb swallowed him whole. The only response from the pleasurable man in question was a hum that made Dmitry buck his hips upwards slightly. His fingers carded through the unruly black curls as always, and Gleb continued his ministrations as expertly as ever, a perfectionist even when it came to sex.

It didn’t take Dmitry long to come, and Gleb to crawl back up to kiss him. He wiped some cum that had escaped his mouth, and wrapped his arms around his lover, and opening his legs for him to settle. The kisses were a little messy, given that neither one of them could wipe the smiles from their faces; Dmitry’s face still fell when Gleb broke away.

“I have a surprise for you, and we will both need use of our legs for it to take place.”

“Are we sneaking into your office like good old times?”

“No, something better.”

“Better?”

“Since it’s my day off, we are going on a trip!”

“A trip? Where?”

* * *

The last time Dmitry had crossed the Neva, his mother was alive. He ought to have been no older than five, and his memory of the day was haze at best, save for the warm and happy feeling that filled him up whenever he tried to recall it. The day he spent with Gleb, he would remember until the day he died.

The ground was covered in snow, and Gleb’s beloved, _flowing_ Neva had frozen over. Still, the small boat they were on broke the ice with relative ease, crossing the river in good time, with the ice reforming right behind it, reminding everyone where exactly they lived. Gleb, dressed in civilian clothes that barely ever saw the light of day, was bouncing on his heels like a small child; he had obviously planned something, judging by his bright smile. Gleb, who hated the cold, and slept with two extra blankets during winter – even when Dmitry had warmed him up efficiently, if he did say so himself – was actually _glad_ to be out of his warm cocoon on their couch. For his Dima.

The big plan of Gleb’s, was nothing more than a sleigh ride. The driver paid them no mind, and their similar colouring helped them to pass off as relatives. Gleb was also in civilian clothes, and he had found out early on that the uniforms made the officers even _look_ different; the first time he had seen Milića in civilian clothing, he hadn’t even recognised her. Not to mention, there were many dark haired men in Leningrad, and theirs was a vast city that had been the capital of the country for a couple of centuries.

With this newfound freedom, they took hold of each other’s hands, hidden between them; when Gleb smiled at him, Dmitry forgot how to breathe for a moment. Here, they weren’t a Chekist and a criminal, the Deputy Commissioner and the most successful conman in the city; just two men, like any other. The rest of the world could not touch them there.

The snowball fight had not be part of the grand scheme his lover had devised, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been _fun_, even if he could not exactly feel most of his hands afterwards. It started when they were going back to the dock, with the sun setting, taking a shortcut through an empty park. The last thing Gleb expected, for all his years in the military, first as a spy-_catcher_, then as a spy _himself_, was a snowball to hit the back of his neck, and snow to slide down his neck.

There were two ways this could go. Gleb could collapse from the shock, because now Dmitry _knew_ why he hated the cold so much, and the latter would feel immense guilt, while taking care of the man who might even fall into a delirious state. Or, he could just abandon Dmitry there, until someone came to arrest him, on his orders, for he _knew_ why Gleb could not for the life of him stand the cold.

Dmitry did not consider the third option, which was for Gleb to slowly turn around, bend down, gather some snow in his hand, and chase him about. They laughed heartily as the chase went on, and what Gleb lacked in speed and agility – not that he was not fast or agile, but he was the one chasing criminals, not outrunning officers, of the duo – he made up with some excellent aim and experience from a childhood filled with games in the snow. Their smiles didn’t leave when Dmitry tackled him to the ground – quite the impressive feat, given his lover’s muscle mass – and started rolling around the snow and laughing.

“Happy birthday,” Gleb said breathlessly, with a soft smile.

“This is the best birthday I could have asked for. Thank you, Gleb’ka.” The kiss they shared was rather chaste, and conveyed all the things they were too afraid to say. _I love you_, it screamed; _but I’m afraid you don’t_.

* * *


	5. Fateful '27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys refuse to look at the truth, and a girl with golden locks appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my drafts are once again with me instead of hundeds of miles away.

* * *

_January 1st, 1927_

“And so I told him to go fuck himself. I mean, how could he possibly talk to her like that?” Gleb ranted from the kitchen counter, chopping the vegetables for stroganoff, while Dmitry tidied up the drawing room. The holiday had changed – from Christmas to New Year’s Day – but the cheer remained. The New Order could not take that from them too, and a good and loyal Russian loves the winter and ensuing snow. Gleb didn’t, but he loved everything _else_ about his country, so he was forgiven.

Dmitry wasn’t really listening to what Gleb was saying, humming an old Christmas carol quietly, having had no idea from where he picked it up; perhaps during his stint as a servant in Tsarkoye Selo? Young as his lover was, next in line for Deputy Commissioner, his morals were much stronger, and his beliefs ran much deeper than those of his older, and more weathered colleagues. He had bled for this country since he was 17, and perhaps his undying loyalty was why he was so praised – and prized – within the Party. Hence the daily rants.

Most of the time, aforementioned rants made Dmitry believe everyone at the office was _insane_; not very comforting when one remembered those people were officers of the law, and used deadly weaponry almost on a daily basis. All of the rants were somewhere along the lines of people getting into all sorts of disputes and fights – physical or otherwise – Milića leaving the building lest she shot someone, and Gleb pulling rank in order to deescalate things, because there was no other way to be heard, or for things to get done in that damned building.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” Damn him, he could be really perceptive when he wanted to. Dmitry always forgot he had risen through the ranks of the Steamroller for being a _spy-catcher_; before becoming a spy himself.

“Not really,” he admitted, and walked to the kitchen, hugging Gleb from behind. “But I’m sure nothing of the sort will happen once you make Commissioner.” Since, apparently, being Deputy was not enough to keep his co-workers in line.

“You don’t know that I’ll make Commissioner,” he huffed.

“Yes, I do.”

“Gorlinsky is still just fine.” He threw the vegetables inside the pot

“He won’t be fine forever.”

“Still, they might promote someone else,” he huffed.

“I still know they’ll make you Commissioner.”

“No, you don’t.”

“But I do! You’re the best they’ve got! Trust me, _I_ would know.”

“How, exactly, would _you_ know?”

“Well, all of Leningrad, including my good self, quivers when they hear your name, for one. And no one has found out about us.” And even if someone had, they were too scared to say anything. “Maybe one day, you’ll make head of the Cheka. Or...” he brought his lips closer to his lover’s ear. “General Secretary Vaganov,” he said conspiratorially, and placed his lips on Gleb’s neck. Gleb leaned his head back, expecting a kiss, or a new hickey. He did _not_ anticipate a raspberry. He jumped, and broke out of his lover’s embrace, only to make to chase him around the apartment.

“Come now, Gleb’ka,” Dmitry said with a laugh, and allowed himself to be caught. He would only ever do that for Gleb, no one else. “Now, go finish that stroganoff,” he said imperially, making Gleb raise an eyebrow, “and impress Vlad and Milića with your amazing culinary skills.”

“Will I get to impress you with my amazing sex skills after they’re gone?”

“Only if you say _please_.”

Needless to say, the esteemed guests did not appreciate the slightly burnt stroganoff their limping and silent hosts gave them, cheeks aflame.

* * *

_October 30th, 1927_

Gleb loved lazy Sundays, especially so when he could bask in the autumn sun. When he was little, his father called him _kotenok_, kitty cat. He would stay unmoving for hours on end, reading a book or sleeping in his nook in the window, until someone – usually his father – would come to lift him bodily; either in order to go and sleep in his bed, or to join the family for a meal. His mother used to card her fingers through his wild curls that always needed pomade to be kept under _some_ semblance of control, and declare it felt like petting the most well cared for housecat.

These days, no one could actually _lift_ him bodily, much less carry his around. He was working tirelessly every day for many long hours, his parents were long dead, and someone was carding their fingers through his hair?

“Good morning, birthday boy.” It was none other than his Dima, waking him up with soft kisses along his shoulder blades. He relished in it, but only a little, before he turned around in his lover’s arms to nuzzle his neck. “I have a gift for you,” he said between shallow breaths, when Gleb started placing feather light kisses to his neck and jaw.

“Really? What kind of gift is that?”

“You get to fuck me all day long,” he said, drawing out the words. “Nothing is off limits,” he added, with the knowledge he was safe in Gleb’s arms. He would treat his Dima well, as he always did.

“I do?” He moved from his place, and rested on his elbows above Dmitry. “But I get to do that _every_ Sunday,” he said petulantly, because Red Army Generals _did not whine, Dima_. “Make birthday boy feel special, will you?”

“You get to eat the blini off my dick?”

“I’ve had pavlova already,” he said, an eyebrow shooting up towards his hairline. It had been two months since that night, and they had been feeling particularly... _adventurous_. Gleb bit him by accident multiple times.

“I’m not your wife.” And now he turned defensive, making Gleb sigh.

“No, and I never asked you to be. But you’re my _friend_. Friends do nice things for their friends on their birthdays.” Dmitry’s birthday had been celebrated across the Neva, in a carefree, snowy day, like all the other winter days in Leningrad. The snow crutched underfoot, and they went on a sleigh ride; their kiss on the snow had been sweet, and tender, and they had been in love.

“Get up then, _koshka_. I have something to show you.

* * *

In truth, Dmitry knew he shouldn’t be bringing a Chekist in this place. Many criminals and street urchins made the surrounding buildings their hubs, and he was endangering both their lives, and his. The same way Gleb was his shield, protecting him from the authorities, he could also be his undoing given his own line of work. If the Cheka were to raid this place, it would be _his_ body floating in one of the canals.

They sat at the edge of the roof, their feet dangling over the edge. It was not too late in the afternoon, but the sun would be setting soon, given how close they got to the solstice. They admired the sunset, and he made sure Gleb would not look his way so he could pull a pastry box out of his knapsack. Gleb’s eyes were still glued to the view of the sun setting over the Baltic. Whatever noble had built their house here, either long dead or long gone, was very lucky indeed.

With the golden light falling on his face, it made Gleb appear like the paining of an ethereal creature, like the ones he had seen in the ceiling of the Catherine Palace ballroom. He was the most beautiful thing Dmitry had ever seen.

He shook his head, and extended the box in his hand. “Happy birthday,” he said, making Gleb turn towards him with a smile, before glancing at the box.

“Where did you get these?” He could not help but ask, given that inside were placed two lemon macaroons. At Dmitry’s raised eyebrow, he lowered his head, apologising. “Thank you,” he whispered, took one, and gave him the other. “For everything.”

* * *

_October 31st, 1927_

Her hair shone like gold in the sunshine, and Gleb knew he had to know her name.

She was an amnesiac, and Dmitry could make her believe she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Now with a spotify playlist! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xdXsxShDhfNqsN1B7Atz1?si=AuoMPL1fRIagL8rq_grcqg


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